Dansevise
by glassamilk
Summary: Norway totally maybe, but not really, rigging the 1963 Eurovision contest to help Denmark not fail for once in his life.


"Oh, for heavens sake, would you stop with your fussing?"

Denmark looks up from adjusting the flower on Grethe's dress sleeve for the umpteenth time and blinks at Norway, obviously oblivious to what the other has just said. He pulls his hands away from her shoulder and turns around fully to face Norway; an anxious mess of nerves and stress and unkempt hair. "Huh?"

"You're just making her nervous," Norway grouses, motioning to the young woman in Denmark's grasp. "And if you touch that flower again, it's going to wilt."

Denmark's eyebrows knit in confusion for a moment before he goes back to messing with his performer's sleeve. "It's not a real flower, Norge, it's fine." He crouches down and sweeps his hands over her puffy skirt in an attempt to smooth out wrinkles that are not there. "I just want to make sure they look perfect. We gotta really wow the judges." He draws back and turns Grethe around, checking the back of her dress for any rogue strings or slipped zippers.

From behind her, Jørgen, her husband, laughs lightly and steps forward to gently pull his wife away from the harried nation. "Our talents are not enough?" He asks good-naturedly.

Denmark waves his hands and flounders through apologies for a moment before Norway can take no more and steps forward to grab the distraught Dane's suit sleeve, pulling him away from the duo and pushing him in the direction of the stage wings. "You'll both be fine," he reassures them. "He's just being an idiot."

Grethe waves to him, smiling, and Norway drags Denmark to his assigned seat in the audience of nations, sitting him down and standing in front of him, pointedly fixing a hard glare on him. "You are not to move from this seat," he says sternly. "I can't take any more of your infernal pacing."

Denmark, though seated, immediately begins to fidget. "I can't help it. I'm nervous."

Norway sighs and sits down next to him. "Why? You've been bragging about having a great song this year."

Denmark spins in his seat to look at Norway, anxiety easily apparent on his face. "That's why I'm nervous! I might actually have a shot this year, which means I have my hopes up! I mean, have you heard Italy's song? Or _Switzerland's_ song? It's brilliant!" He flops back in his seat and scrubs a hand through his hair. "I'm doomed. Totally doomed."

Norway just rolls his eyes. "You aren't doomed. Grethe and Jørgen are going to do fine."

"But what if they don't?" He groans. "I spent all that time convincing them that we were a shoo-in. Now I feel like an asshole and they're going to be so disappointed when we lose."

"When you lose?" Norway quirks an eyebrow. "Don't you mean 'if' you lose?"

Denmark sighs heavily and drops his head on Norway's shoulder. "C'mon, Norge," he laughs humorlessly. "When was the last time I won _anything?_" He shakes his head, still smiling. "It doesn't matter how hard I try, there's always someone trying harder." He smirks and sits back up. "Bad luck of old empires, I guess."

Norway crosses his arms and eyes the Dane, watching curiously as he continues to shift in his seat and pick at his suit sleeves until the lights finally dim and the performances begin, Ronnie Carrol taking the stage for the United Kingdom. They watch the songs progress in silence, but for as lovely as some of the songs are, Norway finds himself listening to them less and less and focusing more on Denmark as his turn approaches. Even in the low light, Norway can see that the Dane is sweating bullets and chewing his bottom lip raw, not a hint of anything other than tense apprehension visible anywhere on him, even as he claps for each singer. His attention is forced back to the stage when his own performer, Anita Thallaug, begins her song, and while he is would love to see her win, he doesn't quite understand why Denmark is so worked up.

It's only a silly singing contest, after all.

Anita finishes her song wonderfully and Norway smiles to her from the audience, offering her a proud nod as she exits the stage. He nudges Denmark as they wait for Italy's singer to begin. "What do you think?"

Denmark gives him a thumbs up and a genuinely happy smile. "She did fantastic. "If I could vote, I'd definitely give her some."

Norway smirks. "Suck up."

Denmark starts to deny it, but Emilio Pericoli takes to the stage before he can and the Dane goes right back to his frenzied worrying, clenching his fists and leaning forward, mouth falling open when the Italian contestant begins to belt out his entry. Half ways through, he claps his hands over his face and falls back in his seat, uttering a barely audible "fffffffffuck" over the Italian's upbeat, charismatic song and tips sideways to flop his head onto Norway's shoulder.

"How am I supposed to follow that?" He whispers nosily. "He's too charming! It's not fair!"

Norway scowls and shoves Denmark off of him. "Would you please relax? It's just a dumb contest, why is this such a big deal?"

Denmark pouts dramatically and slumps to the other side of his seat, propping his head up in his palm to nervously watch the stage. "I just want to impress everyone," he mutters, frowning.

Emilio finishes his song and the audience claps enthusiastically, much more so than they had for previous performers, and Norway sits up a little straighter as Finland's singer prepares to begin her song.

"If you want to impress me, stop moping. This is Finland's girl."

Denmark swallows fretfully and sits up as well, lacing his hands together in his lap. "Oh God, that means I'm next."

Norway rolls his eyes and swats the back of the Dane's spiky head. "Just pay attention, will you? The least you could do is be supportive for the rest of us." He sighs heavily at Denmark's dejected expression and replaces his whacking with a few awkward pats. "Just calm down and let everyone sing. You'll have plenty of time to worry about what everyone thinks of you once the contest is over."

Denmark shifts in his seat and looks at the floor. "I'm not worried about what everyone thinks…" The rest of his sentence is drowned out by the orchestra as Laila Halme begins her song, gracefully sweeping across the stage, perfectly done up without a hair out of place, and out of the corner of his eye, Norway is sure he can see Finland clapping quietly to himself, mouthing the words along with his beautiful singer as she goes. Norway has to smirk, however, at the lyrics of the song, with its wistful high notes and excessive use of "la la la". It's adorable and so very _Finland_ that Norway can't help but tap his foot along with her.

The song ends with Laila clasping her hands in front of her chest and looking down, the stage slowly going dark, and the audience begins to clap. She smiles sweetly, exchanging a happy glance with Finland, and easily floats off stage while the band prepares for the next song.

Denmark's song.

And Norway is quite sure Denmark is going to pass out if he doesn't start breathing correctly.

Jørgen and Grethe both step onto the stage and prepare to start, Jørgen seating himself on a tall stool and slipping his guitar strap around his neck, grinning widely at Grethe as she positions herself right beside him and squeezes his shoulder, positively beaming as they wait for the conductor to count them in.

Norway prods at Denmark's arm. "I heard you picked the song, is that true?"

Denmark goes red from his neck to his ears and nods jerkily. "So, if we tank, it's my fault," he squeaks.

Norway rolls his eyes. "That's not what I meant, you moron." He sits back in his seat and sighs. "If you went out of your way to pick it yourself, it must mean something to you." He shrugs. "I'm just curious, is all."

"I can't tell if you're teasing me or not."

"When can you ever?"

"Touché."

Norway eyes him inquiringly. "So?"

"So what?"

"Does it mean anything?"

Denmark flushes again and refuses to look away from the stage, going stock still when the conductor lifts his arms and begins to set the tempo. "J-just listen to it." The lights brighten and Jørgen starts to lightly strum the strings of his guitar, a low, almost haunting tune humming through the crowd, catching their attention immediately. Denmark's hand shoots out to grab Norway's, gripping him tightly and sinking low in his chair. "I can't watch. Oh God, tell me when it's over."

Norway just rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the stage.

Surprisingly, the song picks up when Grethe begins to sing, her sweet voice brightening the melancholy ballad as she turns to face the audience, smiling broadly; the picture perfect example of beautiful composure.

_"A sunbeam in a puddle,__  
__A little kiss blown by the breeze,__  
__And the rush is humming,__  
__That's life just beginning its web in your mind.___

_A whistle of a flute from the treetops,__  
__A faint sound of a mewling cat,__  
__A brook's quiet ripple,__  
__A whisper in the woods,__  
__That says it isn't night anymore."_

Norway's eyes widen slightly at the gentle lyrics. It was not what he had been expecting at all, especially knowing that Denmark himself had chosen the song. He sits forward in his seat and Grethe makes eye contact with him, smiling warmly and swaying lightly with the music.

_"The meadow wet with dew,__  
__Lady Dawn goes to bed.__  
__Day gets up cheerfully,__  
__And crosses the bridge to the sun.___

_And the two of us?__  
__What of the two of us?__  
__Yes, what about the two of us, you and I?__  
__I'm dancing and dancing and stopping,__  
__And sensing only you.__  
__Why ever did you run away?"_

Norway turns to face Denmark, who has his face buried in his free hand, watching the duo through the cracks in his fingers. Norway gapes at him.

"_You_ chose this song?"

Denmark doesn't reply, but his grip on Norway's hand seems to tighten.

_"Come back, come back,__  
__Come back, my beloved friend.__  
__Come back, come back,__  
__Wherever you wish, we'll dance to.___

_Come, let us dance,__  
__Anything can happen.__  
__Come, let us dance,__  
__Let us dance, let us laugh."_

Norway curls the fingers of his other hand, lightly gripping the front of his shirt as he watches Grethe gesture gently with the music, completely captured by the song and a million miles away from anyone else in the audience.

He is baffled by the lyrics. They seem to leap from joy and sadness and back again, but that isn't what's caught his attention. It's the focus of the chorus and each emotion that Grethe spins with them; each line a frightening parallel to a time in Norway's life far in the past. A time where unions were broken and relationships were strained. A time much, much too far away for Grethe or Jørgen to possibly understand.

But a time that a certain Dane would be all too familiar with.

The music swells after they repeat the first part of the song and Jørgen gives his guitar a long, mournful strum, Grethe slowly lifting her arms to the audience.

_"And the two of us?__  
__What of the two of us?__  
__Yes, what about the two of us, you and me?__  
__I'm dancing and dancing and stopping,__  
__And sensing only you.__  
__Why ever did you run away?___

_Come back, come back,__  
__My beloved friend."_

The guitar offers a one last twinkling of notes that shimmers through the audience and the music fades away. Jørgen and Grethe turn to each other, Jørgen winking playfully to his joyful wife, and a quiet break of silence drapes over the stage. Norway can feel Denmark tense in the quietness, his expression an odd mixture of glowing pride and utter terror, anxiously awaiting judgment from the crowd.

The applause is deafening.

-

Denmark spends the duration of the second half of the show slumped in his seat, relieved to have his turn over, but still nervously biting his nails at every performance, getting especially antsy when Switzerland's singer pulls off an amazing show. Norway, on the other hand, is barely able to concentrate on what is going on up on stage; his brain is still short circuiting while it tries to make sense of Denmark's song choice and tries to assure it's self that he is simply reading far too deeply into things and that the lyrics being so close to real life is just a coincidence because Denmark is much, much too thick to pull off something that sweet.

Before he knows it, the singer from Luxemburg has finished her song and the house lights are coming on and Denmark is pulling on his sleeve.

"We gotta join up with everyone else in the other studio for the voting," he says.

Norway nods, still a bit dazed, and gets to his feet to follow the Dane out into the hall where the other nations are filing out to mingle with the regular audience in the second studio. As they walk, Norway yanks on the back of Denmark's suit and pulls him to the wall, hanging back until the hall is empty.

"Why did you pick that song?" He asks him seriously when he catches the Dane's confused expression.

Denmark quirks a brow. "Why?"

"My Danish might not be as good as it used to be," Norway folds his arms and scowls at Denmark. "But I could understand what they were singing about. And for as brick-headed as you are, you never just pick something important for no reason." He purses his lips. "So, why did you pick a song like that?"

"Eh…" Denmark scratches his neck and shuffles awkwardly. "Well, y'know how it is. People like fluffy romance songs." He offers Norway a lopsided smile. "Why are you so curious about it?"

Norway flushes. "Because."

"Because why?"

"You're impossible," Norway informs him flatly, frowning deeply and turning to stalk away. Before he can get too far, Denmark grabs his sleeve, laughing.

"Calm down, Norge, it's just a song." He tugs him back to their spot by the wall. He sighs lightly and looks at the ceiling in a lame attempt to hide the embarrassing red tint slowly building in his ears. "If you must know, I chose that song because I knew you'd be listening."

Norway stiffens and stares at him. "What?"

Denmark releases his arm and shrugs. "I wanted a song that was bittersweet but still sappy enough to be obvious." He finally looks at Norway, grinning. "Apparently it wasn't obvious enough, though. Sorry."

Norway continues to gape at him. He's quite sure his brain is going to melt if he keeps trying to rationalize the Dane's behavior. "Wait, so…" he trails off. It's impossible. It must be. There is absolutely no possible way. Denmark doesn't _do_subtlety.

Denmark laughs again and claps him on the shoulder as he breezes by. "Come on, Norge. The voting is gonna start soon."

Norway inhales deeply and waves him off. "I'll catch up with you. I, uh…I need to make a phone call." He glares at Denmark and shoos him away when he doesn't budge. "I just need to check on something. Save me a seat."

-

By the time the voting actually begins, Denmark is right back to being a nervous wreck. He had managed to procure he and Norway seats toward the back of the house, but even the dim lights and corner views do nothing to conceal the anxious energy around him as Katie Boyle takes her place beside the scoreboard and begins to announce the procedure for awarding points. It is simple enough; they just have to say the number on the board, the country, and the number of points.

He swallows apprehensively and glances at the door when the lines begin to ring. Norway still isn't back.

Katie finishes with her announcements and greets the first to vote. The representative from the UK breezes through his numbers, awarding three points to Denmark, and they move on quickly to the Netherlands, Germany, and Austria, all three of them presenting him with high scores, especially Netherlands who flashes Denmark a stern thumbs-up from across the room when the announcer awards him five points. When it comes time for the Norwegian representative to dish out points and Norway himself still hasn't shown up, Denmark starts to worry a bit.

He has to force his attention back to the scoreboard when a slight murmur breaks out through the crowd after the man in Oslo stammers his way, incorrectly, through their points. Katie looks concerned for a moment and quickly asks him to repeat his scores in the correct format. There is a short pause on the other end of the line and some awkward shuffling before he asks that they please come back to him for the votes from Norway.

Ever the picture perfect image of poise, Katie agrees and moves on to Italy.

Norway returns just as the announcer from Finland begins their turn. As he sits down, Denmark leans over and grabs his hand.

"Where have you been?" He whispers. "I've been a mess!"

Norway rolls his eyes and shakes his hand off. "Shh. You're tied with Switzerland." He motions for the board. "You're doing fine."

"Your guy messed up. You haven't really voted yet."

Norway quirks a brow. "Oh really? Hm."

Denmark frowns at him. "You're acting weird."

"Your jury just put Switzerland in the lead."

"What?" He snaps his head back to the scoreboard and groans.

Norway pats his arm. "Just calm down. They're half-way done."

They continue to watch as the other countries slowly let their votes trickle in, the scoreboard switching back and forth between Denmark and Switzerland being in the lead nearly each time, always within just a few points of each other. By the time Sweden and Spain have their turns, the audience is on the edge of their chairs, gasping quietly each time the ticker goes up, and when Luxembourg finally bids London goodnight, Switzerland has him beaten by two points.

"Oh Jesus…" Denmark mutters, chewing his knuckles raw. "It's not enough. Your guy didn't give me enough points the first time. I'm not going to-"

"Number eight, Denmark, four votes."

Denmark flies up in his seat, eyes wide. A confused babbling explodes out through the crowd and Katie's composure finally wavers as she notices the change in number as well, nervously thanking the announcer just as the phone by the board begins to ring.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God…" Denmark claps his hands over his face, still gaping at the stage. "Why is the phone ringing?" He turns to Norway. "I didn't win, did I?"

Norway tells him to shut up and keeps his eyes locked with Katie as she speaks quietly into the receiver. A moment later, she hangs up and announces that Monaco has given one point too many and must resubmit their votes. Denmark sinks into his seat as they redial the jury in Monaco, waiting tensely as the line remains silent for several moments before they finally come through with their votes. When they finish, the phone rings once again.

"So…that is the final result?" She asks. "Right!" She hangs up the phone and turns back to the audience, grinning broadly. "Well, as you can see, all the votes are in and the winner of the Eurovision song contest grand prix is…"

Norway pries Denmark's hands away from his eyes.

"Denmark, with the song Dansevise!"

Denmark deflates at once, going limp in his seat as the audience breaks into loud applause, gawking owlishly at the stage. Norway nudges him out of his stunned reverie and he stands up unsteadily and stumbles to the stage to meet Grethe and Jørgen as they go to accept their award, the both of them clinging to each other excitedly and laughing happily when Denmark steps up beside them, his face still frozen in disbelief. Jørgen claps him on the shoulder and the crowd continues to clap and cheer and Denmark finally breaks out into a wide smile, waving to them all, absolutely beaming as they leave the stage.

While the rest of them wrap up the end of the show, Denmark pulls Norway into the hall, away from the others, and peers down at him seriously.

"Where did you go earlier?" He asks sternly.

Norway simply shrugs. "I made a phone call. I told you, I needed to check on something."

Denmark gapes at him. "Norge, you didn't…"

Norway smirks. "Didn't what?"

"Did you…did you call your jury?"

Norway balks at him. "Are you asking if I helped you cheat?"

Denmark nods awkwardly. "Did you?"

Norway smacks him hard across the top of his head and glares at him. "Of course not, you idiot! Who do you take me for?" He jams his hand into his pocket and digs out a slip of paper and promptly shoves it at Denmark "I was…making reservations." He huffs.

Denmark rubs the sore spot on his head and glances over the paper, his face twisting in confusion. "I don't recognize the address…what's it for?"

Norway crosses his arms and looks firmly down at the floor. "It's a dance hall," he mutters. "I figured that you'd be upset after you lost, so we could go dancing. Your song made it pretty clear that you wanted to, so…" he fizzles off, his face burning. "Though I suppose now it would be a celebration."

Denmark blinks at him. "You…want to go dancing?" He looks around like he is expecting someone else to be there. "With me?"

Norway rolls his eyes. "Yes, with you." He pushes off of the wall and points at Denmark. "But I am going to lead. Lord knows you have the dancing prowess of a narcoleptic giraffe." He starts to move past him, but Denmark catches him by the arm and turns him around just enough to gently press their lips together.

"Thanks," he says softly.

Norway shakes his head and sighs lightly. "Don't mention it," he reaches for Denmark's hand and pulls him in the direction of the doors.

Denmark follows him, still grinning. "I mean it. This is really cool of you."

Norway shrugs as they make their way to the parking lot. "It's nothing." He turns to look at Denmark and offers him a small smile.

"Just a gift for a beloved friend."

-The End- 

NOTES:

in 1963, there was some controversy for that year's Eurovision contest when the Norwegian jury mucked up their votes and came back later with different numbers at the very end, pushing Denmark to win over Switzerland .

The song that brought Denmark to a contested victory was "Dansevise" performed by Grethe and Jørgen Ingmann, a lovely tune about wanting to dance with your best friend.

Also, my translation of the song does it no justice. I'm not nearly poetic enough to translate song lyrics, so I'm afraid I made it look a bit dry and literal. You should look up the song, even if you don't understand Danish. It's a very sweet song.


End file.
